A Poem
Every night about half past ten
there's tapping ont window
It's the moth with hob nailed boots
trying to find a weak spot before
he parascends
through shattered glass.
Nowt will keep this tiger away from lamp
He's kitted out with mess tin and webbing
he's all camouflage and clobber
obvious to the untrained eye
that he's been on manoeuvres behind enemy lines afore.
Some foolish person made the mistake
of calling him a poor man's butterfly so he got his mates
from the Pie and Light
antennae down and they had a fight.
Nobody messes with the moth with hob nailed boots.
He's put some shifts in has this fella
He's a bouncer at the ugly bug ball on Saturday nights
he can sup a crate of ale
and tell a hair raising tale
he's afeared of no'one
he's squatted a few humans in his time
has the moth with hob nailed boots.
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